I Believe
by Nevermore
Summary: The FBI's investigation into the Winchester brothers leads to an undercover agent infiltrating the Roadhouse.


Supernatural is a copyright of Warner Bros. Television and Kripke Enterprises. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** Here's my first (and quite possibly my last) attempt at _Supernatural_ fic, posted in honor of **Brynn McK**'s birthday, since she's the one who produced this plot bunny from the ether… and then proceeded to throw it at me.

**Spoilers:** Through Episode 2.22 – _All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2_.

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**I Believe****  
**by**  
Nevermore**

_"Agent Brody," FBI Agent Henricksen prompts, snapping his fingers in front of Brody's face, staring into the man's eyes._

_"Huh?" Brody replies, apparently startled to find himself sitting alone in an interrogation room, Henricksen seated across from him, a camera likely recording every word, every gesture, from behind the two-way mirror several feet away. "I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"_

_"Sure," Henricksen says indulgently. "Is this really the report you'd like to submit?" Henricksen places his fingertips on a few sheets of stapled paper and pushes it across the table, leaving the report right under Brody's chin._

_"Is it really the report I'd like to submit," Brody repeats thoughtfully. He looks down at the papers, and then up to meet Henricksen's challenging stare. Brody isn't a stupid man; at least, he's never thought of himself to be stupid. He managed to get through college in four and a half years, and then he braved the constant temptations of Malibu Beach and got his law degree from Pepperdine. He'd had a job lined up at a Los Angeles firm when his cousin was killed in New York on September 11, so Brody abandoned his plans and joined the FBI, hoping to defend his country from all threats, both foreign and domestic._

_He'd excelled in his government job, and after a few years had his first undercover assignment – go to a bar called Harvelle's Roadhouse, mix with the regulars, and find out everything he could about the domestic terrorist group that counted the Winchester family amongst its members. Simple enough assignment, he'd thought when he first heard it. And there was the exhilarating feeling of knowing he might help avert another attack like the one in Oklahoma City._

_"Agent Brody?" Henricksen prompts yet again. He's getting tired of asking the same simple question over and over, and he isn't bothering to hide that fact from the man across the table. He'd had high hopes for Brody – at first, the young man seemed like the real deal – but he'd obviously snapped at some point, just lost the stomach for hard-core investigation. Henricksen had seen it before._

_"Right," Brody mumbles, focusing on the papers again. "My report." He smiles, trying to buy a few more precious moments before he gives the answer that will end his budding federal career. He reads the first few words as he sits there, trying to avoid Henricksen's withering, impatient glare._

-------------------------------------------------

"What can I get for ya?" the young blonde behind the bar asks.

FBI Agent Dale Brody, undercover for the first time in his life, tries to focus on the question and not on the information that suddenly races through his mind. _Jo Harvelle,_ he tells himself. _Daughter of Ellen Harvelle, the owner of this fine establishment. Her father was a known associate of John Winchester, and her mother regularly mixes with many of the persons of interest that frequent this place. Don't let the pretty face and innocent smile fool you – she's probably knee-deep in whatever's going on in here._

"What do you have on tap?" Brody replies. He gives her his most friendly, ingratiating smile, trying to imagine that he's back in So Cal. Jo gestures to the taps in front of her, leaving him to figure it out for himself as she nods to another patron at the other end of the bar. Brody waits for her to return her attention to him, and then mutters, "How 'bout just a Bud."

"Figured you're more the Coors Light type," Jo says. She smiles thinly, the way so many bartenders and waitresses do, nothing in her tone or demeanor hinting at the fact that she's a domestic terrorist. Or at least some type of career felon. "So you just passing through?" she asks when she places the glass in front of Brody.

"Don't know yet," he replies. "Truth be told, I'm just wandering around for a little while."

"How do you mean?"

"Just got back from Afghanistan," Brody explains, doling out a small piece of personal information from his cover. "And apparently, I forgot my manners while I was in the desert. Jim Dobbs," he says, extending his hand.

"Jo Harvelle," she replies, reaching across the bar and shaking his hand. She has a firm grip, and it's impossible not to notice that her hands are fairly callused. Brody knows immediately that the petite young woman does more than just pour beers and wipe down tables. His mind fills with images of the pretty girl breaking down AK-47's at a secret militia arsenal, or helping build a hidden, underground arsenal. Out of nowhere, he wonders how Jo's personal ad would read at the back of Soldier of Fortune Magazine. _Keep your head in the game,_ he wants to scream at himself.

"So you're fresh back from Afghanistan," she says. "You in the Army?"

"Security contractor," Brody replies, doing his best to ask casual as he takes a sip of beer.

"So you're a merc," Jo says.

"The guys at Blackwater prefer to call us contractors. I don't think anyone uses the word mercenary unless they're trying to pick up a woman at a bar."

"Oh."

"So yeah… I guess I was a mercenary," Brody quips.

"Funny," Jo admits, now smiling broadly, "but not very smooth." There's something so undeniably innocent in her expression that Brody's half-tempted to turn around and walk out, to report to his superiors that they're wrong, that while the Winchesters might be the spawn of Satan, there's certainly no connection to the Roadhouse and one Jo Harvelle. "So what brought you out this way?" she asks.

Brody's disappointed to hear the question. He can see exactly where the conversation is headed now, right where he'd started to hope it wouldn't. It doesn't occur to him that it's taken approximately five minutes of undercover work to get too close, to lose his edge and start hoping that a target of investigation is completely innocent. "I'm just sightseeing," he says. "Haven't lined up a job yet, and I made some extra cash to spend, so I thought I'd just wander around a little bit, maybe pick up an odd job here and there if something interesting comes along. Mostly, I consider myself on vacation."

"Is that so?" Jo asks. She looks him up and down, appraising him, tossing around unspoken questions that Brody secretly hopes include asking him to join her for a drink when she's done with her shift. "You know, if you're really willing to do a little side-job, I know someone who's looking."

"Doing what?" Brody asks.

"That's not for me to say," Jo tells him. "His name's Bobby. He'll be by later… I'll introduce you."

"Great," Brody says. _Bobby Singer,_ he guesses, recognizing another suspected associate of the Winchester boys. As much as he's disappointed by Jo's apparent involvement, he can't help but acknowledge the thrill he gets when he starts thinking about how he's on the verge of helping to break a domestic terror cell wide open.

-------------------------------------------------

_"Am I going to have to re-open the investigation into what happened in Butte?" Henricksen asks._

_Brody wonders why it took Henricksen so long to resort to threats; Lord knows he didn't get as far as he has by playing with kids' gloves. Following his misadventures in Butte, Brody had ended up recalled to headquarters for a few days while the Bureau conducted an abbreviated investigation. He wasn't a stupid man – he knew damned well that people weren't asking any of the traditional, tough questions because Henricksen wanted to infiltrate the Winchesters' support system. Brody's inadvisable activities in Montana had made him "one of the guys," as far as their suspects were concerned. But Henricksen's protection will evaporate if Brody isn't useful anymore; and to be useful, he can't continue to claim that his statement is complete and accurate._

_The first few days after Butte were confusing, and Brody gave the same answers to the same easy questions countless times. The suspect was clearly some kind of maniac, living in the unlit basement of an abandoned house. There'd been a lot of unexplained disappearances in the area, and it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to conclude that maybe this disturbed recluse had been involved. Brody shot the suspect, and Bobby finished him off with a sharp stick; he also may or may not have made creative use of an axe. The house had no registered owner and was, to all appearances, completely deserted, so the lack of a warrant wasn't a problem. Even if the lack of a warrant __**was**__ a problem, it was Bobby, and not Brody, who led the way, so this wasn't an instance of the state overstepping its bounds. Bottom line – Brody and Bobby had been attacked, and everything that followed was a matter of self-defense. Use of deadly force approved, and Brody was sent back unto the breach._

_This time, it's different. Brody knows he isn't heading back out again anytime soon._

_"This," Henricksen said, picking up Brody's report, only to throw it at the younger agent, "does me no good. Damnit, Brody… you're a good agent. It's why we chose you for this assignment. Now your report is telling us that there's no evidence that anyone at Harvelle's Roadhouse is involved in any illegal activity."_

_"That's right," Brody says. He doesn't know why he says it – he knows full well that his best alternative is to bite his tongue and wait for Henricksen's rage to pass – but he can't help himself. As expected, Henricksen seizes upon his sudden willingness to speak._

_"No, that's wrong!" Henricksen spits. "While you've been in here, typing up your horseshit report, all hell has broken loose out there."_

_"Huh?"_

_"Yeah, I figured that'd get your attention," Henricksen responds. He takes a deep breath, and then slowly walks around the table several times, like a circling shark, allowing Brody's anxious anticipation to build to the point where he's practically ready to beg his interrogator for more information._

That's what he wants,_ Brody reminds himself, recognizing the tactic, disappointed that Henricksen thinks it will work. _He drops the hint and waits for me to ask for more. Then he can feed me a small piece of information, try to make me grateful for his generosity. He's just trying to build a rapport. It won't work._ He kept waiting, and finally Henricksen spoke._

_"The Roadhouse burned down six nights ago," Henricksen says. He smiles thinly, and Brody wonders whether the senior agent is smiling because he's pleased with the bar's fate, or because he's proud that his recent protégé didn't fall for the simple interrogation tactic he'd employed. "Yup, went up like a tinderbox. Dozens of people were inside, some of them unidentified, but most of them known associates of the Winchesters."_

_Brody nods, deciding that Henricksen will probably continue if he elicits even the slightest response. It works._

_"The Winchesters weren't there," Henricksen continues. "And from what we've seen, your pal Bobby Singer wasn't there, either."_

_"Jo Harvelle?" Brody asks. Again, he's disappointed at his need to ask, but he allows himself a small bit of curiosity._

_"From what we can tell, the Harvelles weren't there," Henricksen replies. "That's two fugitives and three persons of interest, all of them in the wind after what was clearly an arson fire that wiped out most of their known associates, the people we wanted to turn into informants and states' witnesses. It doesn't look good."_

_"No, it doesn't," Brody agrees, though he has far different reasons than Henricksen. "Does it look like they're up to anything?"_

_"Are you ready to change your statement?" Henricksen counters._

_Brody smiles, then shakes his head._

-------------------------------------------------

"You want me to do _what_?" Brody asks, staring dumbfoundedly at Bobby Singer.

When Bobby explained the job, Brody had gotten an entirely different impression of what he was in for. Bobby only said they were going out to take care of a Head-Case, and after taking several moments to figure out what in hell that meant, he decided that he and Bobby were probably going to deal with someone in the organization who slipped over the edge, maybe some militia-man gone Kaczynski up in the woods somewhere. When they traveled north, into Montana, Brody gave himself a pat on the back for his insight. Seemed that 90 of the whacko nut-job militias in the U.S. were based out of Montana, so clearly this was a preemptive cover-up. They'd stopped on the outskirts of Butte, parked on a dirt road in front of a large, dilapidated Victorian home that was decidedly not the type of remote, mountaintop cabin Brody expected.

But Bobby Singer, for his part, is pretty much _exactly_ what Brody'd expected – rough, gruff, and completely focused on what he's doing. _Whatever the hell that is,_ Brody decides, trying to see through the gloom of the hidden staircase leading down to an old, musty basement.

"I want you to open the door," Bobby says again slowly, patiently. Something in his voice sounds like he's making an effort to be supportive and reassuring, and that only serves to put Brody on edge. "Then I want you to step back and let me go first, just in case."

_Why the hell does he think he needs to be extra-supportive?_ the FBI agent wonders. _It's just a door. Sure, it's dark and spooky, but my cover story indicates I was a merc in Afghanistan; why would he think I'd be scared?_ Then it dawns on Brody. _He __**doesn't**__ think I'm scared. He just thinks I __**should**__ be… because he is._

"And use this," Bobby adds. His hand shoots out in the darkness, slipping a piece of wood into Brody's left hand.

"A cross?" Brody asks, holding it up in front of his face.

"Probably won't do anything, but you never know," Bobby shrugs. "I always subscribe to the 'Can't Hurt, Might Help' school of thought."

Brody almost laughs at the situation, wondering what some of the guys back at the office would make of the scene. Here he is, in the basement of an abandoned Victorian not far from an exhausted copper mine. The only other person he's seen in the past twenty-four hours has kept telling him not to be surprised by what they find, though he won't say what that is. And now Brody's standing here with a wooden cross in his hand, an old kerosene lamp providing the only light as he looks into Bobby's eyes, wondering if what he's seeing is madness or genuine, primal fear. "And what happens when I open the door?" Brody asks.

"You just let me worry about that," Bobby says. "You just stay clear. Now… on three, okay?"

"Sure."

"One. Two. Three."

Brody turns the knob and pushes, but nothing happens. Bobby is absolutely aghast, his eyes wide in unmistakable terror. "Push!" he hisses desperately. "He's gotta know we're here now."

"Who?" Brody asks.

"Push the goddamn door!" Bobby yells. He lunges forward, shouldering into the thick, oak door just as Brody leans into it. The door swings open easily under their combined efforts, and they both end up sprawled on the dirt-covered floor.

The first thing Brody notices is the stink, a combination of wet dog and rotten meat, a gag-inducing, overpowering stench that Brody actually marvels at having been unable to detect from the other side of the door. The second thing he does is thank his lucky stars that Bobby managed to keep from shattering the lantern on the floor; it's the middle of the day outside, but you'd never know it down here in the basement. As he thinks about it, he finds it strange that anyone would build a basement without providing any source of light. These old houses were mostly built before electricity was available, and that's why there were so many large, drafty windows upstairs. _Must be a root cellar or something,_ Brody decides. He's never seen a root cellar, but he's heard of them; if he had to sit down and think up what a root cellar would look like, this would be it.

"Oh, hell," Bobby mutters.

Brody looks at Bobby, and a chill goes up his spine when he sees a pair of feet standing just at the edge of the lamplight. Bobby is on his feet in a flash; he leaves the lantern and what looks like a rifle case lying on the floor, producing a sharpened stick in his right hand as he approaches the obscured third man in the basement. He lunges forward, only to end up sailing through the air back in the other direction, thudding heavily against the wall.

Brody's not entirely certain what the hell is going on, but his FBI training was thorough enough that he fights to one knee and draws his service pistol. "Move and I shoot!" he yells. He can barely make out the silhouette of the man who'd been hiding here, a dark shadow against an inky-black background, but it's still too dark to make out any details. He can't see any weapons, and he keeps trying to remember exactly what the legal threshold is before he can start firing on a suspect who may well be unarmed.

Then he finds the question is moot. The man dashes toward him faster than Brody ever thought possible, bursting forth from the unlit gloom. Brody manages to fire two shots – both of which he would swear hit their target – before his attacker grasps his throat in a viselike grip. Brody kicks at his attacker, his feet thudding heavily against the man's shins, accomplishing nothing. It somehow starts to grow darker, and Brody realizes he's starting to lose consciousness. The man smiles thinly, and Brody is struck by the thought that the suspect seems to have more teeth than most people.

And then he tumbles to the floor. Brody gasps for breath, scrabbling away from the man as his vision starts to clear. The suspect is staggering around in the gloomy lantern light, grasping clumsily at what looks like a thick stick protruding from his chest. He falls to his knees, breathing heavily, just as Brody fights his way to his feet.

"Do me a favor, will ya?" Bobby asks. He opens his rifle case, and Brody sees that it contains a beaten-up old axe, and not a rifle.

"Sure," Brody says.

"Go upstairs and search the house," Bobby says. "It'll probably be empty, but I want to be sure."

"What are you going to do?" Brody asks.

"I'll take care of him," Bobby replies, gesturing toward the impaled man on the floor. He's holding the axe in his hand now, and Brody has a good idea what Bobby Singer means. _Damnit,_ he curses silently. He knows he can't stand aside and just let Singer just a man, but he also knows that countless lives might depend on him working his way into the syndicate that counts Singer and the Winchesters as members. _The guy's dead already,_ Brody tells himself, ignoring the fact that the suspect is still squirming around on the floor, like a worm on a hook, grunting in pain as he tries to tear the barbed stake from his chest.

"I'll see you upstairs," Brody says, walking toward the door to the stairs leading back to the surface.

-------------------------------------------------

_Henricksen hasn't moved for at least an hour, and Brody is finally starting to squirm. He knows he should at least say something, that it's his turn to give something in return for the information Henricksen shared. But even though Brody wants to speak, to explain how everything actually happened, he can't avoid reminding himself that while Fox Mulder made for a great TV character, in real life he would have ended up the subject of an involuntary commitment._

They only hit me with a couple days of routine, intermittent questioning after Butte,_ Brody reminds himself, now looking back fondly on an experience he'd found unsettling and exhausting at the time. But now he's been under the gun for God knows how long. Henricksen's giving him the full-court press this time around – good cop-bad cop, ego-down, and eventually sleep deprivation. Brody doesn't even bother drawing on his R2I training; he knows Henricksen has no real power over him, that he isn't going to suffer any permanent harm, and that in the end he'll likely just lose his badge and career. As he learned in Montana, there are worse things in the world._

_The job with Bobby, as crazy at it was, was really only the start; Brody just had no idea at the time. Coming back to his office, even if it involved an official Bureau review, helped him settle his nerves and convince himself that he hadn't actually seen some of the things he thought he'd seen out in the field. Getting clearance to return to duty brought all of the confusion right back._

_Only when he was back on the road, away from the familiar surroundings in his office, did everything actually start to become clear. Not that he felt any better about that. It was after the job with Sam and Dean that Brody finally admitted to himself that he'd been wrong about everything from the get-go. The suspect in Butte wasn't a maniac serial killer – he was a vampire. Brody distracted the vampire with bullets, providing the opening for Bobby to stake him through the heart. Not that that even seemed to accomplish much more than slowing the thing down. Then Bobby sent him upstairs while he chopped off the head and burned the building down, doing his best to conceal evidence of the vampire and its decomposing prey._

And I can't put any of that in my statement,_ Brody knows. He looks across at Henricksen, who isn't bothering to hide the fact that he was absolutely furious._

_"Well, if you can't give me any more than you have, then I don't see why we should keep you around," Henricksen says. "I'll give you a few minutes to think about it, to realize that you can help us stop everything happening out in the Midwest. And if not… well, I hope you've worked on your résumé lately."_

-------------------------------------------------

Brody doesn't really know what to make of Ash. On the one hand, the guy seems several steps beyond brilliant; but on the other, Brody has a lot of trouble imagining how such a smart guy can't realize how stupid his mullet looks. So he settles on the assumption that Ash is some kind of socially inept savant. Having comfortably pigeonholed the Roadhouse's resident genius and tech guru, Brody follows Ash's advice and walks out back.

His first instinct upon seeing the Winchester brothers is to draw his sidearm and place them under arrest. After all, they're both wanted men with rap sheets that would make Charlie Manson blush. But Brody suppresses his initial inclination and reminds himself that he's here to gather intelligence on the network of criminals and potential terrorists who aid and abet the Winchesters and others like them. He's worked hard to become accepted – hell, he even went on that weird trip with Bobby – and he isn't about to comprise the Bureau's ongoing investigation just to bring in two fugitives. Henricksen said he specifically chose Brody for this job because of his ability to see the big picture; he won't start thinking small now.

Sam is sitting on the hood of his brother's Impala, shaking his head skeptically as Dean takes the driver's side door apart. "I'm telling you – you're imagining things."

"No I'm not," Dean insists. "I just installed these damn speakers, Sammy. And they're already on the fritz." He reaches into the car and turns on the radio, standing back and gesturing meaningfully at the car door as the opening chords of The Scorpions' "No One Like You" blare out.

"Sounds fine to me," Sam says, shrugging casually, seeming to bask in the face of his brother's withering stare.

"Well, maybe right now it does," Dean counters, "but there was something wrong with it on the way over here."

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, Dean, but Journey has always sounded like that. Just took a good set of speakers for you to realize how bad they are."

"Shut your mouth," Dean warns. "Not a word about Steve Perry."

"Don't stop believin', Dean," Sam quips. He looks up and sees Brody standing there, watching the two of them. "Who're you?" If he's concerned by the appearance of an unfamiliar face, it doesn't show.

"Jim Dobbs," Brody replies. He walks up cautiously, keeping one eye on Sam while he tries to determine whether Dean might be hiding any weapons just out of sight. He has to admit that for all of Henricksen's warnings, the brothers really don't seem all that dangerous. At least, he can't imagine many other career criminals spending time arguing about the artistic merits of 80's bands and power ballads. "Ash told me you two were looking for a guy to help out with something."

"Yeah… you're the one who went up to Butte with Bobby," Dean says. He turns down the radio and walks out from behind the door. "I'm Dean," he says, extending his hand, "and that musically retarded guy is my brother, Sam."

"Nice to meet you," Brody says, shaking Dean's hand and nodding over to Sam.

"So… a vampire," Dean says, nodding slightly. "First kill?"

"Huh?" Brody replies. He's trying to act secure and confident, but he has absolutely no idea how to respond to that question.

"Bobby says it was a Head Case," Dean explains. "That's what he calls vampires," he adds when Brody shrugs. "You know… the whole decapitation thing."

"Yeah… decapitation," Brody mutters.

"Never understood it myself," Dean continues, apparently oblivious to Brody's uncertainty. "I mean, they've still got human bodies. Seems a stake through the heart should kill them just as thoroughly as it would kill you or me. And what's with the dead man's blood, you know?"

"Yeah, it's crazy," Brody says. _Just go with it,_ he tells himself. _Guy's obviously mad as a hatter… just play along with his delusions._

"Well still… hell of a start," Dean says.

"Thanks."

"You know anything about car stereos?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Brody admits. He spent a summer working part-time at a car audio place in Malibu, and he spends a few seconds deciding how to incorporate that information into his cover story, just in case either of the brothers asks. "But I don't know anything that'll help me make Journey sound good," he adds, gambling on sarcasm as a way to ingratiate himself with these two.

"See what I mean, Dean?" Sam says, a small chuckle eliciting a scowl from his brother.

Brody walks around the door and takes a look at the wiring. It's actually a fairly good quality speaker, and if Dean's the one who did the installation, there's no doubt he knows his business. It only takes a few moments to conclude that as long as the speaker itself is working properly, there's no reason – besides the obvious – that Dean should have been unhappy with sound quality.

"Looks fine to me," Brody finally says as he stands up, hoping he's made enough small talk to be able to move on to business without seeming suspiciously curious. "So… what kind of job are you planning?" He's secretly hoping it's another bank robbery, though he supposes running guns could be entertaining, too. His only hope is that he won't be involved in anything violent. The job he did with Bobby had him walking a very fine, legal line, and he knows the only reason that was declared a good shooting is because he managed to get in with the Roadhouse's more mysterious patrons. But he'd been warned thoroughly, and given the Winchesters' history, he's a little nervous.

"Well, if all goes well, this shouldn't be anywhere near as tough as that vamp in Montana," Sam says.

"Of course, if the job goes south…" Dean mutters.

"Which it won't," Sam adds quickly, taking a moment to glare at Dean before he turns back to Brody, offering nothing but reassuring smiles. "This is just a simple transaction, that's all. We already managed the hard part, so we just have to make sure we're ready in case our business partner doesn't want to make good on the deal."

_So I'm just extra muscle,_ Brody decides, figuring that's a perfect job. Assuming all goes well, he'll be left completely alone to watch and record the meeting. "So who are we meeting?"

"It's more of a 'what,' actually," Dean explains.

"Huh?"

"It's a naga," Sam says. "It was being hunted by a garuda--"

"That's a bird-man," Dean adds.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "and so we need to bring the garuda's beak to the naga, as proof that we put him down."

"And then we get the water of life," Dean finishes. "Pretty simple, really."

"Right…" Brody replies. There's nothing in the Winchesters' files that indicates they've been diagnosed as psychotic, but Brody's willing to go out on a limb and make that assumption now. _Probably paranoid schizophrenics with psychotic ideation. Great._ All of a sudden, hopping in the back of the Impala and going on a road trip with these two is looking more and more dangerous.

"Any questions?" Dean asks. It's pretty obvious he thinks he and Sam did a thorough job of explaining everything, so much so that Brody almost feels guilty asking for a few details.

"Well, there are a couple of things," Brody says. "For starters, what the hell is a naga?"

"Half-human water spirit," Sam explains.

"Half-human," Brody repeats. "And the other half would be?"

"Serpent," Sam answers, as casually as if he's telling Brody the score in the Dodgers game last night.

"Kind of like that dragon woman behind the shade in _The Golden Child_," Dean adds. Sam rolls his eyes, but Brody nods, finding the reference helpful.

"But we get that you're new to this," Dean says, clearly trying to allay Brody's growing anxiety. "So I'll tell ya what – Sam and I will do all the talking, and you'll just stand guard with the golden arrow."

"Huh?"

"Oh damn…" Dean mutters, "Don't even tell me you don't know how to use a bow."

-------------------------------------------------

_"The paperwork's done," Henricksen says as he walks back into the interrogation room._

_"Huh?" Brody asks. He figures he fell asleep within moments of being left alone, and he knows he's groggy. Slightly confused. Vulnerable. So he does everything in his power to slow down everything around him. "What do you mean?"_

_"Your discharge from the Bureau has been taken care of," Henricksen tells him._

_"Don't I get some kind of a hearing?"_

_"I'm offering you a deal," Henricksen replies. He smiles thinly, and Brody actually sees his superior for the first time. Until that moment, in Brody's eyes Agent Henricksen had alternated between respected mentor and trusted comrade, an officer to whom Brody would have been comfortable entrusting his life and well being. But now he sees what he figures every suspect sees when Henrticksen finally slaps them in cuffs. It's every bit as unsettling as the look in Bobby's eyes when he pulled out his axe._

_"What kind of deal?" Brody asks. He forces his mind to focus through his fatigue-induced fog, to listen to the terms that, to be honest, he'd known would likely be presented to him before he left this room. Even when he walked into the building, to execute one last assignment and complete the report that led to all of this, he knew it was for the last time. The only question was whether he'd simply be forced out of the Bureau, or whether he'd end up in shackles. Or, if everything went wrong, Gitmo._

_"You hand in your badge and gun, and get your ass out of my Bureau," Henricksen explains. "No appeals, no requests for a supervisor review, no bullshit lawsuits. You just sign on the dotted line and get the hell out of here."_

_"And then what?" Brody seems anxious, though his question is all for show. He wants to appear confused and unsure rather than relieved. He's reminded of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox, two characters in a book he had as a kid. Brer Fox caught Brer Rabbit, who kept insisting that he was fine with anything Brer Fox did, just as long as he didn't throw him in the briar patch. Eating? Sure. Hanging? Fine. Drowning? No problem. Just please, whatever you do, don't throw me into the briar patch! And of course, the dim-witted Brer Fox finally decides that the only way to deal with his floppy-eared tormentor is to toss his cotton-tailed ass into that thorny briar patch, which is what the wily rabbit wanted all along. "You're just gonna abandon me after several years of service? You're just gonna fire me and toss me out on the streets?" Brody asks. He speaks the words, but his ears hear, _"Please don't throw me into the briar patch!"

_"It's better than you deserve, after your performance on this investigation?" Henricksen spits, seemingly amused at Brody's apparent naïveté. "You leave, and then you scratch and claw for whatever job you can find. No more government benefits, no more badge, and no more gun. And for what it's worth, I wouldn't put me down as a reference if I were you."_

_Brody lowers his head and nods slightly. He knows he won, that he finished his mission and managed to get exactly the deal he was hoping for. But the taste of victory is bitter, not at all sweet, tainted by fatigue and the loss of everything he'd valued and worked for over so many years._

-------------------------------------------------

Brody sighs heavily when he catches himself clenching his jaw again. It's a new habit, something he noticed himself doing after his first hunt up in Montana. If he stopped long enough to think about it, he might find some small measure of amusement in the fact that he spent several years in the Bureau, working for countless Type A personalities like Henricksen, and it never disrupted his cool. It only took a vampire and a naga to change all that.

Now he spends most of his waking hours obsessing over which monsters he's read about in fairly tales or seen in movies are actually real. _Werewolves? _he wonders. _Mummies? Ghosts? Poltergeists? The Easter Bunny? The Tooth Fairy?_ He starts keeping track of his growing list, determined to ask Sam and Dean about every single one of them.

A quick glance at the fuel gauge reminds him that he meant to stop for at the last rest area he saw on the Garden State Parkway. His Crown Vic – a former Bureau car he bought at auction several months ago – has the virtues of improved speed and handling compared to most civilian vehicles, but it isn't exactly the most fuel-efficient car he's ever owned.

He looks at the directions again and decides that he can wait until after the meeting; he's almost there, and already running a little bit late. It wouldn't do to have Sam and Dean picked up for loitering just because they're waiting for his slow ass.

He exits the Parkway and turns onto a two-lane road that curves through increasingly wooded areas. He's starting to wonder if he somehow missed the meeting place when the trees on his right give way to a large, dirt parking lot in front of an old, abandoned church. Brody slows down and pulls in, driving right up to the black 1967 Impala that's already parked there.

It's as if no time has passed since the last time he saw the Winchesters. Sam is standing in front of the car, poring over a map spread out on the hood. Dean is checking his speakers again, this time on the passenger-side door.

"You're late," Sam says without looking up.

"I know," Brody replies. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"Didn't really have a choice," Sam admits. "The Roadhouse burned down a couple weeks ago… lots of our people died."

"I heard," Brody says.

"How'd you hear?" Sam asks. Dean has stopped what he's doing; now he's looking up at Brody suspiciously, as if he expects the unexpected.

_Just say it,_ Brody tells himself. He takes a deep breath and hopes for the best. "I was with the FBI," he answers. "I worked for Henricksen."

Sam nods, almost as if he already knows all of this. Dean's eyes are darting from Sam, to Brody, and back to the Impala. It's obvious that he wants to run, that he suspects a trap.

"So your name isn't Jim Dobbs," Sam says.

"No, name's Dale Brody. Everyone just calls me Brody."

"Definitely sounds better than Dale," Dean comments.

"You aren't with the FBI anymore," Sam mutters. It's a statement, not a question. Something about the tone of Sam's voice causes the hairs to stand up on the back of Brody's neck, though he can't explain why.

"Henricksen sent me in to find out about the people who work with you," Brody explains. "He thinks you're part of a domestic terrorist organization, that your numerous and sundry felonies are just the tip of the iceberg. He wanted names and information, evidence he could use to bust all of you, people who could be convinced to testify against you."

"And?" Sam prompts.

"And I didn't give him what he wanted," Brody shrugs.

"So they threw you out on your ass," Dean concludes.

"I received an administrative separation," Brody corrects.

"Well ain't that a kick in the pants," Dean mutters.

"Not entirely," Brody responds. A think smile spreads across his face. "Before I was sacked, I managed to gain access to our evidence storage lockers. If you're ever arrested, you don't have to worry about any of the federal charges currently pending against you."

"How'd you manage that?" Dean asks, obviously impressed.

"Just tell your attorney to investigate all records of chain of custody," Brody tells them. "Everything the Bureau has right now is tainted… it'll end up being suppressed."

"That could get you in a lot of trouble," Sam points out.

"Only if they figure out it was me," Brody replies. "It'll be awhile before they realize what happened, and by then there'll be dozens of people who've had access to that evidence. They won't ever be able to prove anything. Besides, they fired me, so screw 'em."

"So that means you're not a Fed anymore?" Dean asks. He's still a little wary, making certain he allays his own fears before he accepts Brody back into their circle.

Brody can't help but smile. "Frees me up to come out here and help you guys. Henricksen mentioned the Roadhouse fire during my debriefing; he said there were lots of crazy things going on in Wyoming, that the crime rate has spiked across the entire Midwest. Murder-suicides, cop-killers, human sacrifice--"

"--Dogs and cats, living together… mass hysteria," Dean chimes in.

Brody can't help but smile at that. "So what's on the agenda?" he asks.

"Ever hear of the Jersey Devil?" Sam asks.

"I assume we aren't talking about hockey players," Brody replies. "Can't say that I have."

"Then you're in for a treat," Dean tells him. He walks around to the back of the Impala, opens the trunk, and tosses a sawed-off shotgun to Brody. "Loaded with silver shot. It ain't cheap, so make your shots count."

"I thought silver was for werewolves," Brody says.

"Werewolves and lots of other things," Sam tells him. "You and Dean do the shooting, and I'll perform the exorcism to send it back to Hell."

"Unless you happen to be fluent in Latin," Dean adds.

"Not so much," Brody admits. "Had an Italian girlfriend once… that's probably as close as I've gotten."

"Then get in your car and follow us," Dean says. He slams the trunk shut and walks back around to the front of the car. "Hope you like your new job."

_Fin_


End file.
